


and death is no parenthesis

by Lise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood, Dark, Extraordinarily Gruesome, Gen, Gore, Hell, Hurt No Comfort, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come Hell or high water, you don't just let your brothers go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and death is no parenthesis

**Author's Note:**

> Might as well subtitle this "Why Lise Is Incapable of Happy Endings." Just so there's fair warning there. (Someday I will write happy fluffy things where everyone is cheerful and well adjusted and gives lots of hugs. Today is not that day.)

He tried. 

He tried for grief. Nice, normal, healthy five-step-process grieving. But that doesn’t, he discovers, cover the kind of rip-your-heart-out-of-your-chest, half-a-whole feeling of losing Dean, who was so much. Bobby doesn’t know this. No one knows this feeling, and he knows that isn’t true but it is how it is all the same. 

This was not supposed to happen. 

In the end, it is Dean’s words he arms himself with. _Remember what Dad taught you,_ he said. _And remember what I taught you._ Sam remembers. Dad taught him that family has to come first, that you always have your brother’s back, and above all to never give in. Dean taught Sam self sacrifice and how to go too far for the ones you love. 

That’s all he needs. 

It’s reason and excuse all in one, and while he knows there is nothing rational about it, rational no longer matters. 

He can’t mimic Dean exactly, though; can’t die. It won’t work that way. It’s not that he doesn’t think he’ll go to Hell, more that he’d be just another prisoner, and that’s not what Dean needs. Dean needs a rescue, and that means he has to walk in alive. 

Sam has the peculiar feeling that his sanity is fraying around the edges, and decides that in Hell, that will probably only help him. 

Sam considers doing what research he can, right down to rereading Dante’s _Inferno_ , but in the end he decides that it doesn’t matter, he’ll go in with what he can take and there’s probably no words to do it justice, anyway. 

He tells Bobby that he’s going out for lunch. He’s been careful to be honest for the rest of the time, so the older hunter suspects nothing now. This is something that has to be done alone. This is a hunt without backup.

Sam wears the same clothes he would wear on any hunt, and brings his duffel bag. Ruby’s knife is strapped to his leg and there’s another made of iron at his hip. The bag has a rifle loaded with salt rounds and the Colt. 

It’s not enough; but there’s probably nothing that will be enough. The worst he can do is fail, and he’s already done that. 

He drives the Impala to Wyoming out of a sense of duty and studies the Devil’s Gate. The stone looks so cold and innocuous. It’s hard to believe that a year ago, Sam almost thought that things would end here, but no – the Winchesters hadn’t lost everything yet. 

Sam squares his shoulders and carves the symbol in the ground that he dug out of one of Bobby’s books. A holding spell. It’ll keep the demons inside while he opens the door. Hopefully. 

Dean would be pissed at him. Sam hopes that Dean will be pissed at him. 

He pulls out the Colt and examines the barrel for a second, then steps forward and slides it into the keyhole, watches the familiar spinning motion. The door opens more slowly this time, and looking through it at the red light and empty space, Sam thinks of Milton. 

_Into this wilde Abyss the warie fiend stood on the brink of Hell and look'd a while, pondering his Voyage._

Sam suspects he should be afraid. He isn’t. After all, what is there to lose?

He steps through, and descends.

* * *

At first it is just darkness.

And then it is darkness, and there is nothing _just_ or _only_ about it. 

This darkness presses, it crowds, it swallows and devours. He can hear sounds, but they seem to come from everywhere, strangely muffled, as though this is all a great black fog and he is wandering in circles, going nowhere at all. 

Still longer, and the darkness seems to whisper. It murmurs and seems to writhe, like the fog is really eels squirming in one great dark mass. Slimy and oppressive. There is something that feels like it is burning in his veins, and he wonders if it is the demon or living human blood responding. 

It goes on. And on. And on. 

He calls out, once, and discovers that his voice makes no sound. Sam can feel his heart thudding, the only living thing here. Everything else is silence, and darkness, as it might have been in the night before life awoke, before the idea of the first particles was even a mote in emptiness. 

Sam goes on. Descending, going forward, going back – he has a feeling it doesn’t matter. _Perhaps this place will never let me go. Perhaps this is all Hell is, just this, forever-_

Sam stops. The sound of his breathing is loud and harsh in his ears, and there is nothing else in the dark. His legs are feeling heavy and weak. _You shall not pass,_ Sam thinks absurdly, in Ian McKellan’s voice, and giggles too loudly in the dark. 

_Stand up,_ he thinks, savagely, _move!_

The air seems to resist him as Sam lunges up and forward, seems to push back as it grasps and tugs at his ankles. And just as suddenly, it is gone. 

Sam slams his eyes shut so he will not go blind in the sudden sear of light. 

When his eyes will open again, Sam discovers that his duffel bag is gone. For a moment, he holds still, breathing. The air tastes wrong and his head is trying to spin. He fights it back down and looks forward. 

There is a wall of thorns blocking the way. They are thick and black and oozing blood from their tips. 

Sam bares his teeth and draws the iron knife. “Dean,” he says, to remind himself. And forward.

* * *

The thorns dig deep and hold fast. They grow nearly as fast as he can cut them back. Their branches bend and twist and grasp at his arms, his legs, and for every snap of a limb that then weeps clear fluid like tears, he rips ten thorns out of his own skin.

Two stab through his hands, and Sam laughs at the irony even as he yanks them out, not screaming. Blood is coursing in rivers down his arms and into his eyes from his scalp, but they are only thorns. Through the wall, he can see flickering light, like flames, and fights all the harder for it. 

When the end comes, it is a surprise. He staggers and nearly falls. There are holes in the center of both his palms. His arms look like more blood than skin. His coat is gone and the flannel shirt is in tatters. 

But he has not lost his weapons. The knife is slick with blood in his ruined palm, but it is still there. He clutches it more tightly, the pain shooting up his battered arms only incidental. 

In front of him is a stone cavern. He blinks and there is a stone altar in the center. A man is stretched out on his stomach on it, shuddering. His arms are stretched out taut and Sam can see the muscles in his back straining. 

The head turns, and glazed green eyes meet his. “Sam,” Dean says, “Sammy.” 

Sam’s breath comes out explosively, and the iron knife clatters to the floor in a spatter of blood. He lunges forward, but then Dean is standing behind the altar, and Dean is still stretched out in bonds, and they’re both looking at him. 

“Stop right there, Sammy,” says the standing Dean. “That’s not me. This is me.” He lifts his right hand, holding a long, curved knife, and runs his tongue along it. Sam shudders. 

“No,” he says, in denial, and the standing Dean tilts his head and says, “No?” and then strides forward and slams the blade home between tied-Dean’s shoulder blades. 

Sam lunges with a furious yell, but standing Dean is gone and it is only him and his brother, still splayed out, eyes open and staring. Sam pulls out the knife as though that will help, and hacks through the bonds with what might be tears or sweat running down his face. He rolls Dean tenderly over, because you can’t die in Hell, can you? He’ll be back, and then they can return together-

He sets the knife down and waits, though his face feels too warm. It’s fine. Any minute now. 

He feels Dean twitch, the first rise of his chest. The movement of his arm. 

And the hot, sweet, sudden burn of the knife in his gut. 

He looks down, and Dean’s eyes are solid black, and his face is twisted, mangled, and rotting. “Gotcha,” he – it – says, smirking, and twists. 

Then, in a flash of light, it is gone. 

Sam bends double over the blade, gasping, choking. It hurts, this time, really _hurts_ – a fatal wound, he knows. But Sam doesn’t scream. He doesn’t need to. Or can’t. 

He pulls the knife out and watches the blood run. It flows sluggishly. _I won’t die,_ Sam concludes, _Not here. Not for a very long time._

He forces himself to straighten and picks up the knife. The hole in his palm twinges in reminder. 

He doesn’t have to keep it together forever, Sam reminds himself. Just long enough. 

There is a tunnel ahead now. He moves forward and steps in, looks ahead. It spirals down. Sam takes one step in. Then another. Then another. 

He’s getting closer, he can feel it.

* * *

It gets darker again, now, and the demons find him when the quality of the light reaches that of dusk. “Sam Winchester,” one hisses, though it looks more like a frog than a snake, and he has a feeling that even that is an illusion. “Sammy Winchester. The delinquent Boy King.” 

Sam adjusts the knife in his hand. His middle is soaked with blood, now, pumping warmly out of his stomach. “Yeah,” he agrees, and says, “I’m looking for my brother.” 

“He’s never getting out,” says another one, loping to the frog’s side. This one is even more twisted and grotesque, with a human mouth but fish eyes and gills. “And neither are you.” Others are massing in the darkness behind them. He can see them. Hear them. 

“Just try,” Sam says, baring his teeth. His heart beats rapidly, once-twice, and a new surge of blood washes out, dripping from his hand. “Just try.” 

They surge forward, howling, gibbering, roaring. He meets them, tearing with flashing steel and hands and eventually teeth. Their claws bite deep, leaving ribbons of flesh. Their teeth meet in his shoulder and try to drag him down. For every body that flashes and melts with a strike of Ruby’s knife, another rises. Sam’s whole world is demons and blood and war, fighting, fighting, fighting. 

And his mouth is full of blood that could be his or might not be, but he still has the knife, the knife and the thought of Dean, Dean, Dean throbbing inside him like a homing signal that he can’t resist. It is too much to fight, but he still has something left to give. 

Sam throws back his head and lets everything go. _Flash flash flash flash_ they die, demon after demon after demon. _Flash flash flash._ One by one and then three by three and then twelve by twelve. They scream and thrash and writhe almost like they are people in pain. “No mercy,” Sam whispers, “No mercy.” 

One of them crawls to him and clings to his foot. “Master,” it whimpers. Sam kicks it in the face, or what passes for its face, and then kills it. 

Then they are gone. The power is still thrumming through his veins, but Sam’s body is starting to fail. He staggers. Something runs down his face and it could be sweat or blood. When he glances down, one of his own ribs is gleaming white through the ruin of his chest. His entire body aches, begging to lie down and rest. 

_Soon,_ Sam promises. _It’s almost over._

He continues downward. There are dark shapes ahead, but they flee from him now. The knife is stuck to his hand with dried blood. 

Sam keeps moving. One step. After another. After another. 

All the while, the humming feeling grows louder, and he is coming near.

* * *

Dean doesn’t understand. 

There’s no pain. There is always pain. But stranger still, his torturer, _Alistair,_ looked up not a moment ago and seemed displeased, though with his face it would be impossible to say for sure. “Hold on a moment,” he said pleasantly, and disappeared. 

He hasn’t come back. 

Someone is coming, though. He can feel footsteps, hear their quiet approach, and when they pause beside him he turns his head to see. 

At first he doesn’t understand what he is seeing. It doesn’t look like a demon. It looks like a human, bleeding, mutilated. As he himself must have looked at times. But there is something wrong. “Dean,” it says, and that isn’t unusual – everyone here knows his name – but the voice is. The breathed, relieved way it says it. 

“No,” Dean says, fierce, vicious denial. It’s not the first time they’ve used Sam against him, but this is worse, because Sam doesn’t look angry or upset or in pain. His eyes shine with adoration, and nothing else. 

But Sam’s face has been ripped open on one cheek, and his nose is smashed. His hair is matted badly with blood, and the rest of him – 

He looks like he’s been through a paper shredder, and then a meat grinder. And there he is, trying to smile. 

Moving forward and starting on the chains. The unbreakable chains that slide apart under Sam’s mangled fingers. (He can see bone in a few places. On his left hand, three are downright missing. Sam pauses and coughs, and blood sprays.)

His little brother hardly seems affected. “We have to go,” he says, and Dean doesn’t move, trying to understand this new torture and what it means. Sam, torn apart and drenched in blood. Alistair, gone. And, Dean realizes, everything is quiet. 

No screaming. Nothing. Everything gone silent. 

“We don’t have much time,” Sam says. “I don’t know what else they’ll try, but I don’t think…I can still get you out.” 

“What?” Dean says. His voice sounds strange and ragged in his own ears. Sam’s hand wraps around his wrist, sliding for a moment in blood, and tugs him forward. 

“I’m getting you out,” Sam says, and there is something in his tone, too calm, unreal. “That’s what I came here for, dumbass.” 

When Sam turns his back, dragging him along, Dean can see it, through the blood and bone and ruined muscle (god he shouldn’t even be able to move but this is Hell)-

Sam’s lungs quiver. His heart beats. 

In all this time, in all the screaming, Dean hasn’t breathed once. Hasn’t heard his own heart once. 

It’s the demons. It has to be. _It has to be._ Sam isn’t here. Isn’t here and _alive,_ certainly. That’s not even possible. It’s not-

But he follows. What does Dean have to lose? 

Sam drags him upward. The ground is somewhere between stone and flesh, and Sam is leaving bloody footprints. He stumbles, once, and swears, under his breath like he’s afraid someone will hear. “Just a little farther,” Dean hears him say. “Just a little-“

They come to a cavern. This one is full of mirrors. Sam doesn’t look at any of them, seeming in fact to quicken his pace, as though he fears something. Dean glances at himself in the mirror and blinks. He doesn’t look any different. Sam is little more than a smudge of red, or black, or both. 

Next it’s a thicket of thorns, but they draw back and quail away from both of them. Sam makes a noise that might be a laugh but sprays blood on the ground, and Dean stares at it, disbelieving and disinterested. This isn’t Sam, he’s decided. This is just another trick, and he won’t fall for it. 

After the thorns, it is darkness. Darkness so pure and utter and absolute for a moment Dean thinks he’s lost sight even of this false Sam, of everything, and can’t stop the noise bursting from his mouth. (Not a cry. A shout.) 

Sam’s hand tightens on his wrist, and Dean can feel the warm wetness of fresh blood welling up between them. “I’m here,” Sam says, “Just – keep going. Almost there. I promise. Almost there.”

Almost where? Dean wants to ask, but he’s afraid he doesn’t want to know.

* * *

Sam’s heart has started to stutter and stagger unevenly. They’re so close, though, so close. The darkness is as bad as it was before, as close and hungry, but Sam hardly even notices. Dean, it’s Dean he has to think of. Dean who he found, who is following him now, confused and probably scared but there. 

The hole in his gut is throbbing and his whole body feels cold. Some way back he started to limp. His body is remembering that it has limits and trying to make him remember too. 

Sam ignores it. The darkness was long, but not forever. They will get out. And then – 

And then nothing. After that, nothing matters. Just this. This is what matters. 

_Further up and further in,_ he thinks hysterically, but they couldn’t be farther than the heaven of C.S. Lewis’s children’s series. 

“Sam?” Dean says, sounding uncertain. Probably he thinks this is a trick. Sam will be sure he knows it isn’t. 

“Almost there,” he says again. “I promise. We’re almost there.” 

They have to be. He isn’t sure how much longer he can push like this. _(Damn you. Forever, if you need to.)_

He won’t leave Dean behind in this darkness. He won’t. 

His hands hit stone. Sam opens his eyes. There is light, sunlight, far, far above. “Dean,” he says, turning, “We have to climb.”

Dean is staring up, his mouth open. Sam nudges him again, and Dean grabs onto the stone. It molds under his hands, and Sam finds a smile. He lets Dean get a few feet up, then begins to follow him, eyes on the opening. Just a little farther. That’s all. Just a little farther.

* * *

Dean crawls over the edge and falls facedown into the grass. It tickles his face. It itches in his nose. It’s cloudy overhead and the ground is damp from a recent rain. 

He looks up, waiting for some sign it’s a trick, and realizes what he climbed out of. The Devil’s Gate is open. The Colt is still in the lock. 

_No,_ he thinks, _no, this is all wrong._

And then something else is crawling over the edge, hardly recognizable. It stands, wavering, and reaches out, pulls the Colt free, and shoves against the door. Dean remembers it being hard to move, but it slams shut like it wanted nothing more. 

The thing that followed him out is hardly recognizable as human in the stark, cold, light of day. It was easier in Hell. 

Dean still knows, though. The Colt. The Devil’s Gate. Those eyes, shining with adoration. 

It must be a smile. “You’re out, Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is hoarse, little above a whisper. “It’s okay.” 

And then he falls. Not like fainting, not gently, but like the strings holding him up were just severed. Dean’s mind is gibbering. 

_Sam walked into Hell. He_ walked into Hell. _What does that-_

But Sam isn’t moving. Sam is red and still on the grass and dirt, body torn and shredded and broken, and Dean staggers to him, waiting for him to heal, expecting the wounds to knit-

_This isn’t Hell, dumbass. This isn’t his soul. This is Sam._

Sam torn apart. Sam bleeding. Sam-

His eyes closed and head tilted back so the stillness in his neck is perfectly visible. 

He’s out and he’s alive and the air smells like coming rain, and Sam walked into Hell for Dean. 

Where can he walk for Sam? Someone can tell him, and he’ll do it. He’ll do it in a second, find some way to fix this, because this was never what was supposed to happen, and a scream is bubbling up unwanted in Dean’s throat, he wants to throw up, wants to hit something or break something. Sam was supposed to-

_Remember what I taught you._

Maybe, a dark voice murmured, he just learned all the wrong lessons.


End file.
